


A Portrait of Love

by OtterlyWasted



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Prythian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 21:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19049260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtterlyWasted/pseuds/OtterlyWasted
Summary: Rhysand's birthday is coming up and Feyre wants to give him a unique, and extremely personal gift. She needs help from their family to accomplish it.A short story containing all of the Night Court's inner circle; Feyre, Rhysand, Amren, Morrigan, Cassian and Azriel. Loosely set some time after A Court of Frost and Starlight. Contains unique memories of Rhysand's mother and sister.I had the idea for this story will working on my other ACOTAR project, and decided to take a break from the chapter I was working on to write this.Fairly gooey, but also some substance to it. There isn't a full fledged, detailed sex scene, but there is mention of it so I slapped a mature rating on this.Hope you all enjoy!*** After re-reading this I have found a few typos, and there are undoubtedly more. My dog had surgery two days ago and I am currently working on 4 hours of sleep and a lot of caffeine. When I get some more sleep I will re-check it and try to fix the problems. Sorry!





	A Portrait of Love

To say I was nervous was a bit of an understatement.

I had come up with this idea weeks ago and then promptly agonized over it until I was almost out of time. Rhys’s birthday was only a few days away, and I wanted to give him something special, something unique, something he did not already have.

This idea would most definitely qualify – and it might also be painful.

However, when I explained what I wanted to do, to my family, they had whole heartedly agreed to help, and conspired with me to make it happen.

So now I was ensconced in the cabin, far in the mountains, it’s walls bedecked with colors and images of life and love, and our amazing family that I had painted years ago. The plan, or perhaps to put it better, plot, was that Mor and I were coming to the cabin for a short just-us-girls retreat. However, over the course of the next few days Azriel, Cassian and Amren would be joining us, one at a time while the other two made sure Rhys was distracted and did not notice their absence.

Right now though, it was Cassian sitting across from me at the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair, one elbow on the table, his head propped on his hand.

His eyes were closed, and his brows were furrowed, a look of deep concentration on his face.

Had there been a mirror in front of me I’m sure my look would have mirrored his.

In front of me on the table was a medium sized sketch book, and several sticks of charcoal. I was leaning over it and sketching, never once looking up at Cassian, too focused on what I was doing. Because right now, my mind was resting over his, like a fisherman in a boat over calm seas, and he was throwing me fish – or memories rather, for me to catch.

Memories of Rhysand’s mother and sister.

One by one, he would throw me a memory, and I would catch it and sketch it out, and he would wait for me to nudge him, and then he would throw me another.

Like the memory of the first time he met Rhysand’s mother, when he had been dirty and freezing, and she had ordered him into a bath and then sent him to sleep for the first time ever in an actual bed, promising him that she understood and that he would have a bed here for as long as he wanted. It had been the first kindness he ever remembered receiving.

He showed me the time he had fallen sick with fever, and she had sat beside his bed for days, bathing his forehead with a cool cloth, feeding him broth and tea, and reading to him while he recovered.

Or the time he caught her dancing in the kitchen to music only she could hear, twirling with happiness – until she saw him, and with a mischievous grin, had pulled him forward and taught him how to dance while he blushed furiously.

And of Rhysand’s sister, beautiful and wild, like her mother, laughing as she ran through the camp with the other younger children, her hair flying out behind her on the cold mountain wind.

The time he had taught her how to make soup in the kitchen at their old house in the Illyrian camp, laughing when she suggested putting honey in the soup, because she loved it so much. The soup had been terrible, and they had all eaten several bowls of it that night, just to see her smile.

He showed me a memory of her sitting on his lap at night by the light of the fire, while he had helped her learn how to read, the same way Rhysand’s mother had taught him, and the feeling of pride and quiet joy in the memory at something so simple was radiant.

I sketched for hours, filling the pages with his memories, until my fingers were tired, and he looked as though he had a headache.

Then there was a knock on the door and the memory Cassian had been showing me faded as we both looked up, startled. Mor walked over to the door and opened it and Azriel stepped inside, nodding to Mor then looking over at us. “He wants to see you, he was going to winnow to the camp, but Amren distracted him. We need to go now.”

Cassian glanced at me and I smiled at him, “Go, and thank you Cassian.”

He winked at me and stood up, “Any time.”

I looked back at Azriel and asked, “Are you or Amren coming tomorrow?”

“Most likely Amren, she has mentioned to Rhysand about visiting Varian for a few days.” A corner of his mouth quirked up and Mor snickered.

The romance between Varian and Amren was something that still continued to shock and amuse all of us even all these years later.

“Well that’s good, save’s the best for last then!” I grinned at Azriel, who I would have sworn blushed, but then he just bowed his head at me before the two of them headed out in order to winnow to the camp.

Mor walked over to my side then, leaning over my shoulder to look at my work. I glanced up at her, a little nervous, but she smiled and said, “They look incredible Feyre. Stop doubting yourself, he is going to love it.”

I blushed and let out a sigh, flexing my fingers a little, they were stiff from hours of clutching the charcoal.

She caught the movement and grinned, “Too tired for my turn? Or would you like to eat first?” 

I groaned pitifully, “Food please. And wine. I can feel my stomach wrapping around my back.”

She laughed and walked into the kitchen, pulling out a pot and the jars of soup we had brought with us – neither of us could cook.

“We should have made Cassian cook for us before he had to leave,” I commented, getting up to wash charcoal dust off my hands.

Mor chuckled, “Yea, let’s remember that next time. Oh well, at least we won’t have to share the wine with him.”

We both laughed, and I helped set the table and before long we were both stuffing ourselves with rich soup and crusty bread and working through a bottle of wine.

After finishing our meal and cleaning up, Mor took the seat Cassian had perched in, and I started to sketch her memories – she had more memories of Rhysand’s sister than anyone else, it seemed that they had spent a lot of time together. Though she had a plethora of memories of his mother as well, it felt as though she considered Rhysand’s mother more like her own, than her birth mother ever had been.

My favorite memory that Mor shared with me was one she had of Rhysand’s sister. They had all taken a small vacation here at the cabin during the spring sometime before the War. Mor and his sister had found a field of wild flowers and sat in the middle of them, braiding the flowers into their hair – the memory was so sweet and innocent and colorful… I knew someday I would have to paint it. 

When it became too dark, we had to call it quits – though I wasn’t concerned, we had the next few afternoons to work through her memories to fill the book with, while I was only getting a couple of hours with everyone else during the morning.

That night, after sitting up chatting for what felt like hours, we had gone to bed. I curled up under the sheets of the bed we had shared the first time we had made love after we had accepted the Mating bond, reaching up to curl my fingers over his pillow.

 _Busy day?_ I sent down the bond – careful to keep my thoughts of what I had done all day shielded. It might have been safer to not talk to him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of blocking him out.

 _Very._ He responded a moment later. _I miss you._ The coloring of that thought was full of longing and desire, and it made my toes curl and I grinned into the dark room.

 _Just a few more days…_ I teased back, and I swore I could hear him groan.

I laughed and decided to tease him further, sending him a memory of my own of him on his back in this very bed, and me sliding on top of him, the feel of him inside of me, his hands sliding up over my hips, cupping my breasts…

Another groan, tinged with a seductive growl, _You cruel wicked thing… Anymore and I will be joining you there tonight._

A shiver ran down my spine, and I was so, _so_ tempted to invite him… but I didn’t want him to catch on to my little project, so instead I deflected gently, _Save it for when I’m back…_

 _Make it soon,_ he purred.

I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

\- - - ~*~ - - -

Amren’s memories of Rhysand’s mother and sister were… different. Amren didn’t seem to see the world quite the way anyone else did, she failed to catch many of the nuances the rest of us would have noticed; not details in environment but in behavior. She also didn’t have all that many personal memories with them, but she did however recall their faces very clearly – more so than any of the rest of them. As though she had been able to map their faces in her own drawings, inside of her mind – ready to be displayed just for me. It was interesting, and a little unsettling, but I sketched them out just the same.

She was finished faster than Cassian had been, the lack of memories being the only reason, and though she had been happy to help she did not seem displeased to leave earlier – more time spent in the Summer Court with Varian.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working with Mor, and when she had a headache, I used the memories she had already shared with me to flesh out some of the details in both Cassian’s and Amren’s, giving each sketch as many details as I could. Some were rougher, the older the memory – and these were all old memories, the less defined they were, but they were still clear enough to sketch.

Later in the evening, after we had finished dinner and just finished doing the dishes. Mor sat the towel she had used to dry them on the counter and turned to look at me, her eyes dark and her brows furrowed.

I dried my hands off with another towel and looked up at her, frowning a little, “What’s wrong Mor?”

“I… have a memory, of Rhysand’s mother that…” She hesitated, and crossed her arms, obviously uncomfortable, but went on, “That I want you to sketch. It isn’t… it isn’t a happy memory exactly. But… it meant a lot to me, and I want him to have it too.”

I studied her face, then nodded, “Of course, come sit down.”

We sat at the table and I pulled out the charcoal, flipping to a new page, and reached out to Mor’s mind. It seemed to take her a few minutes to relax, but finally she sent the memory to me and for a moment, my hands froze. Then I began dragging the charcoal across the page as though those dark marks could draw out the roiling emotions that colored this memory for Mor, like leeching poison out of a wound. It was not a happy memory, she was right, but it was… beautiful in its kindness.

Her father had promised her in marriage to Eris, the heir presumptive of Autumn Court, and she had been devastated, nearly inconsolable with rage and frustration and terror… and Rhysand’s mother, who had heard the news, went looking for her and found her tucked away in a tiny room in the castle in Hewn City. Found her and held her for hours in a way that no one ever had before. This wild woman, who had starved herself to stop her own bleeding in order to keep her wings, who understood what it felt to be powerless and overlooked as she had once been in an Illyrian camp, shared with Mor her strength and understanding, and her love without saying a single word. 

The gratitude Mor felt towards Rhysand’s mother was overwhelming, and I spent far longer drawing this memory than I had any other. When I finished it, and Mor let the memory slide back into the ocean of her mind with the others, I looked up at her and asked quietly, “Do you want to see?”

Mor’s face was pinched and pale, and she shook her head, “No. Thank you for sketching it though.” She smiled at me vaguely, “I’m going to head to bed. Don’t stay up too late, ok?” 

I nodded and watched her leave. The Morrigan. A woman with such depths of strength and kindness, she never ceased to amaze me.

 - - - ~*~ - - -

Azriel arrived a little later in morning than the others the next day, and after accepting a cup of tea from Mor with a brief smile, sat down across from me at the table. He looked… oddly nervous. I don’t think I had ever seen Azriel look nervous in all the time I had known him.

Fiddling with a stick of charcoal I leaned forward a little, “Azriel, if you aren’t comfortable…”

He shook his head, “I don’t mind you looking inside my mind Feyre, though it’s hardly a pleasant place to be.” A corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. “It’s that I think you might find it… disturbing. It is difficult to explain however – but please know that I will understand if you aren’t comfortable with using my memories.”

I frowned a little with confusion but said simply, “Alright. We’ll begin when you’re ready.”

He nodded once, took a sip of his tea, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The shadows that always hovered around him, turned thick and dark around him, almost like armor as though to protect him while his attention was turned inwards.

I watched him like this, and for a moment my mind turned from thoughts of working on the gift for Rhysand, to painting this – Azriel, the shadowsinger, swallowed by shadow and yet not an ounce of menace or evil leaked from him. No, everything about him spoke of peace and calm, even possibly, contentment. As though the memories he was summoning up were bastions of happiness for him.

I knew that I was what I would call it, _A Bastion of Shadow._

I smiled briefly before looking down at the journal and the fresh blank page, then opened my mind and reached out, brushing against Azriel’s and… and I understood then what he had meant. The shadows that clung to him, danced around him – they were not just outside of his body, but inside of his mind. Tendrils of shadow that twisted and reached for me, like the legs of an octopus, wrapping over me, around me… And for a moment I panicked, and tried to pull away, when I realized – they were not _holding_ me.

I stayed still and watched them caress my mind, gentle and inquisitive, but not invasive or restraining. They reminded me of a woman I knew once, when I had been mortal, who had lost her sight as a child from fever, and how she explored the world with her hands instead of her eyes. These tendrils of shadow were learning about me, learning the touch of my mind, and I had no doubt they were whispering to Azriel what they discovered in that language only he could translate. I relaxed and settled back in place, and as though the shadows told him I was ready, he offered me his first memory.

Like Cassian, Azriel shared with me the memory of the first time he had met Rhysand’s mother, on his very first day in camp. And like Mor, this was not a happy memory, except for the kindness that she had given him without question or hesitation. She had taken in the sight of him, thin and pale, and how the sunlight hurt him – and it was the first memory I had seen where she looked angry. He showed me how she had hovered over him, worried about him not eating enough, and helped him adjust to the sun with such simple kindness.

Next he shared with me the memory of his first winter solstice that he celebrated at the camp, the dinner that had been a feast, and the first gift he had ever been given – a sweater that Rhysand’s mother had made for him out of such rich, luxuriously soft wool that it had been a pleasure to touch.

He showed me the memory of the day that he, Cassian and Rhysand had returned from the Blood Rite, bruised and bloody, and victorious. How he had looked out at the crowd of waiting families – of which there were none for him – until he had seen her right at the front of the crowd, with tears in her eyes and a look of such relief on her face – not just for Rhysand, but for him and Cassian as well. How that night, in their small home, she had hugged him fiercely, and hadn’t let him go for what had felt like hours.

The memories he had of Rhysand’s sister held not an ounce of darkness in them, despite the shadows that swirled around them. His feelings towards her were achingly sweet, he had seen her like his little sister and doted on her.

The first memory he showed me was the first time he had held her when she was a baby – he had been _terrified_ , she was so small and he was certain he would hold her too tight, or drop her, even frightened that the scarring of his hands would be too rough on her petal soft skin. But he remembered how she had looked up at him with her vibrant blue eyes, without fear, and smiled.

He shared with me the time he had found her near the edges of the forest by the Illyrian camp as a small child, crying over an injured bird. He had helped her carry it home and bandage it and they had cared for it together – and the day they had released it and it had flown into the sky and she had laughed with joy.

He shared with me the memory of her waiting for him, outside of her father’s war room for hours during the War. She had paced, waiting to see him because he had only just returned after being gone for weeks on a dangerous mission. She had thrown herself into his arms and cried when he had finally been dismissed by her father. He had held her tight, and had felt how afraid she was, for him, for all of them.

After hours of working, it was Azriel himself who broke both our concentration this time, drawing back his memories and sitting up straighter, making me look up. His eyes narrowed a little, head cocked to the side and listening… then chuckled, “And that’s my cue, Cassian tipped off Nuala who just reached out to me. Rhys needs some information I collected for him earlier this morning. Do you need me to come back later, or was that enough?” 

I looked down at the journal, flipping through the pages, and realized… it was full. All except for the last page – which I had been saving.

Looking back at him I smiled brilliantly, “You finished it for me Az, thank you, so much.” Then suddenly I reached out, brushing the fingers of one charcoal covered hand over his and said, “There is nothing disturbing about your mind Azriel, thank you, for sharing with me.”

He froze, staring at me for a moment, then smiled faintly, “Thank you.” He stood, spotting Mor looking at us, and nodded to her before quickly heading out of the cabin so Rhys wouldn’t grow suspicious. 

After the door shut, Mor joined me at the table, peering over my shoulder as she had done when I had finished with Cassian, admiring the memories.

“What are you going to put on the last page?” She asked me, stepping around to sit in the chair Azriel had just vacated.

I looked up at her and smiled, my stomach flipping a little with nervous excitement, “I’m going to paint a family portrait.”

She smiled widely, “That is going to be perfect. I’ll leave you alone, while the light is good.”

I smiled at her gratefully, then went and collected my box of paints. The next few hours were spent painting a brand-new memory, the pieces of it drawn together from the collective memories of everyone who had loved Rhysand’s mother and sister best.

I finished by late afternoon, and left the book pinned open so the paint could dry. The rest of the day was spent with Mor, enjoying what was left of the girls-only-vacation we had only been playing at until now. The hours were filled with laughter and stories, and quite a few bottles of wine, and that night I went to bed with my soul feeling light and my body jittery with anticipation.

\- - - ~*~ - - -

The next day dawned bright and beautiful, and despite having slept soundly my body was still thrumming with excitement.

At the sight of me fidgeting, Mor paused at pouring me a cup of tea, “I’m not sure you need this, you look hyped up enough.”

I snarled at her playfully and she laughed, then poured my tea. 

I checked the painting throughout the day, likely giving it longer to dry than it honestly needed, but by late afternoon, it was done. My chest tightened and I found my breathing hitching, anxiety suddenly hitting me hard.

“Feyre,” Mor said as she looked at me from the couch, “calm down. He is going to _love_ it. Trust me, ok?”

I swallowed hard, then nodded. Checking one more time that it was dry, I unpinned the book and closed it.

Resting a hand on top of it, I looked up at her and smiled, still anxious, but holding it at bay. “How soon can you be packed?”

She laughed and stood up, “Already packed sister-mine, just give the word and I’m out the door.”

I walked over to her and hugged her fiercely, and she hugged me back just as tightly.

“Thank you so much Mor, for all of it.”

She pulled back, grinning at me, “Of course. Do you want me to send him, or…?”

I shook my head, “No, I’ll call for him, can you avoid him in Velaris for an hour or so?”

She nodded, “I might just go visit my estate for a few hours, that way we don’t have to worry about him sensing my return.”

My shoulders relaxed and I smiled at her gratefully, “Thank you again.”

She waved a hand, dismissing my thanks and made her way to the door of the cabin, pausing to glance back at me. “You two will be back tomorrow for the family party?”

I snorted playfully, “Yes, don’t think I am letting him get out of a party when he makes me have one each year.”

She laughed and opened the front door, “See you tomorrow then.” With a wave she headed outside, then winnowed away.

The panic bubbled up inside of me again and I had to take several deep breaths to work it back down.

Retrieving the book, I reached my power into the pocket realm that we could store things in, and withdrew from it a simple wooden box, carved of walnut and dyed a rich brown. On the front of it, etched into the wood and dyed black was the emblem of the Night Court – a mountain, with three stars. 

I opened the box, and it was lined with fine dark blue velvet, so dark it was almost black. Lifting the sketch book up I placed it inside the box and closed the lid, then carried it over to the low table in front of the couch, setting it in place.

Heading to my bedroom I stripped out of my simple pants and shirt – and pulled on a dress of midnight blue, lighter in color than the velvet in the box down stairs, but still dark, reminiscent of the night sky. The hem of the dress fell to just below my knees, a loose flowing skirt that swished around my legs when I moved. The back and sides of the dress were sheer black lace and the top wrapped around the back of my neck halter style, leaving the upper half of my back bare and exposing part of the moon phase tattoo that ran down the line of my spine – the mark from the bargain I had made with Bryaxis.

I pulled on a pair of black satin slippers, and then went to the bathroom to finish. Gathering my hair up into a loose bun at the nape of my neck, allowing a few tendrils free to frame my face, and held in place with a pair of silver sticks that were topped with a falling star. I didn’t bother with make-up often, but I took the time tonight, darkening my lashes and lining my lids with kohl, then painting my lips with a dark red. Leaning back from the mirror I studied my visage, and blushed a little, the color highlighting my cheeks.

I was ready. It was time.

I walked back out into the main room of the cabin, took a deep breath, and then sent a thought down the bond. 

_Are you busy?_

A second passed, then, _Surprisingly no, are you ok?_

I smiled, bless my friends, they had likely made sure his schedule was light today.

 _Yes,_ I sent and said, _join me, please? At the cabin._

Not even a full minute passed, and then he was there, the darkness ebbing from him as he arrived and turned to see me and… froze.

His violet eyes drank me in, every inch of me. Traveling from my feet, along my bare legs, touching on my hips and waist, my breasts and shoulders, along my neck, tracing the curve of my lips… then he met my eyes. And I could see the delight, and the hunger and the love – the love that shone so brilliantly out of his eyes, it dazzled me.

“Feyre…” he whispered my name… and then he was across the room in two long strides, and had me in his arms, pulling me tight against him, and kissed me long and hard and so unfathomably deep.

I fell into him, into his body, into his soul, kissing him back with all the burning intensity of my love for him. I felt his hands sliding over my back, his fingers tracing over the lace and then gliding along the length of my spine, and I shivered with pleasure.

Days. It had only been a matter of a few days since I had seen him last and yet… until he was here, holding me, kissing me, I hadn’t realized quite how painful the ache had been without him, until his presence banished the pain inside of me and I was filled with a relief so sweet, it was almost its own form of pain.

After what felt like eternity, he drew back from me with an effort, and we were both breathing hard. He slid one hand up, cupping the side of my neck lightly, his thumb brushing over my jaw and leaned forward to press his forehead against mine.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered to me, “I carry the image of you in my head each day, all day, and yet when I see you again I realize it was a pale comparison to how breathtakingly radiant you are.”

I blushed and felt the heat of that blush trace a path down my neck, and over the top of my breasts. I reached up and brushed my fingers over his cheek lightly, and then teased him playfully, “You’re not so bad looking yourself.”

He laughed, rich and deep, completely unfettered. Leaning back he took in the sight of me again and then smirked a little, “Girls-only-retreat hmm?”

I laughed and titled my head, “Well… Mor was here. So were Cassian, Azriel and Amren.”

His brows furrowed in confusion, “Have you been playing with illusions again Feyre darling?”

Smiling, I shook my head, “No, they weren’t here the whole time, only a few hours each day.”

I took a step back from him, but reached down to take his hand, squeezing gently. “I have a gift for you… but it’s from all of us.”

He arched a brow, but followed me willingly enough to the couch, where I bade him sit. I picked the box up and handed it to him, then slid onto the couch beside him, leaning into his side and tucking my feet up beneath me.

He held the box, brushing his fingers over the smooth wood, then glanced up at me. “What’s the occasion?”

I rolled my eyes at him, “It’s your birthday tomorrow, but… I wanted to give this to you, alone.”

My stomach fluttered with nervousness, and he seemed to read a touch of it on my face, his brows drawn together again as he tried to understand why.

I nudged him, “Go ahead… open it.”

He studied me a moment longer, then opened the box and eyed the sketch book curiously. “If this is filled with Mor’s stick figures, then you must be a mind reader.” He teased, glancing at me, “I’ve been dying for an entire book of those. 

I huffed a laugh and smacked his leg lightly, “I’ll get you that next year.”

He grinned, then lifted the book up, and I took the box from him, leaning over to place it on the table before sitting back to watch him.

He opened the book, and his entire body went rigid.

The first page was one of Cassian’s memories, his first memory, meeting Rhysand’s mother that night she had welcomed him into their home. Her face was soft and sweet, her lips curved in a kind smile, and her eyes were knowing and full of welcome. _Home_ her eyes seemed to say, _you are home._

My hands were fisted in my skirts, and my eyes never left his face – which was blank, in shock or anger, or a grief too consuming to be expressed, I wasn’t sure.

Minutes passed before he moved again, reaching up to turn the page.

The next page was a memory of Mor’s, walking through the streets of Velaris with his sister, her eyes bright and alive and fiercely happy.

Another minute, another page, another memory.

Amren’s this time, a stunning profile of his mother as she looked out over the city of Velaris from the House of Wind.

Then Azriel’s, holding his sister during the war as she cried with fear and relief.

He didn’t speak, and his body remained rigid, but over time the look on his face changed from blank nothingness to… relief. I didn’t know of another word to express how else he looked. Like a man gone blind from injury, having only the memory of the sun to comfort him, and then miraculously opening his eyes one day to see the radiance of the sun again anew.

I stayed by his side, still and patient, refusing to even touch him lest I distract him from the memories he now walked through.

A few of the sketches he lingered on, I would glance down to see what caught his eye, and sometimes it was a memory I knew he shared with one of the others, but sometimes it was one I knew he had never seen.

The memory Mor had shared, of his mother holding her as she wept, he lingered over for several long minutes.

But it was the memory Cassian shared that almost brought the hint of a smile to his lips, of his mother dancing in the kitchen, of teaching Cassian to dance.

As he flipped to the last page of the book, I stopped breathing entirely.

I told Mor I was going to paint a family portrait. A new memory, born of all the combined memories they had shared, and my knowledge, and love of him.

It was his mother, her face lit with kindness and freedom, his sister with her hair wreathed in flowers and laughter dancing in her eyes, and him beside them, his true face and not a mask, warm and compassionate, and happy.

He stared and stared… and then closed his eyes and I saw tears roll down his face.

“Oh Feyre…” he whispered to me, then turned, holding the book in one hand and his other wrapping around me, pulling me tightly against him as he buried his face in the crook of my neck, and I could feel the wet warmth of his tears trace a path across my skin.

I wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly within the shelter of my arms, stroking my hands over his back and through his silky hair. I felt his body trembling against mine and swallowed back tears of my own.

And then I felt his mind brush against mine, light and loving as he whispered to me, _You gave them back to me, Feyre. You, all of you, gave them back… I… I don’t even have words…_

His mind fell silent though he didn't retreat from me, and I reached out, brushing my mind against his, twirling myself around him, holding him even here.

 _They were never gone,_ I whispered to him, _but now you can see them as others have loved them and were loved by them._

And I felt him shudder with a low sob and I held him tighter.

\- - - ~*~ - - -

It was hours later, and we were still curled up on the couch together, his arm still tight around me, refusing to let me go, and he was going through the book, over and over. He told me about the memories he knew, that he had shared or been told about, and listened as I told him about the memories that were new to him – sometimes even showing him in his mind what had been shared with me while I sketched them.

And it seemed with each memory the old sorrow inside of him eased, the pain of their loss would never fade, but the sorrow of it which had weighed so heavily on his shoulders all of these many years began to lessen.

And it was hours after that, when he had finally sat the book aside and carried me into our room where we made love, slow and sweet, and so tender I nearly wept. Curled around each other, skin to skin, our bodies warm and damp with sweat, that he whispered in my ear, “I have a birthday request…”

I tilted my head up to look at him and smiled, “Anything.”

He looked down to meet my gaze, filled with such radiant love, and smiled, “I want another book of memories…” he leaned down, brushing his lips across mine as he whispered, “our memories together, our life… I want a book of those memories, so we can share it with our children someday.”

And the tears I had not shed earlier, that I had held in check, they came now, hot and sweet, trailing down my cheeks.

He kissed them away, brushing his lips over my skin, tasting the tears with his tongue light and teasing, then whispered, “My darling Feyre… I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am relatively new to writing fan fiction, so every bit I write is a wonderful learning experience.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this, and would love to hear your feedback!
> 
> -Otter


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